Wraithskin Rugs and Bad, Bad Sambas
by ALC Punk
Summary: John Sheppard is a man on a mission. Friendship type stuff.


Little Red said: Heh. See, I read the subject line and really expected that this would be a fic entitled "wraithskin rugs and bad, bad sambas."  
I'd offer that up as a challenge, but I am way too afraid.  
  
So, I give to you....  
  
wraithskin rugs and bad, bad sambas by Ana Lyssie Cotton  
  
Disclaimers: Not mine.  
Rating: PG. Set: Mid-season one. Notes: Didn't quite get in all the sambas. And how do we spell A/Ethosian? (too lazy to go look it up... Must go to bed). This has been sitting around, waiting for polishing.  
  
The planet had been as hot as hell, and for some reason, the heat seemed to transfer to the city of Atlantis. He was panting. Major John Sheppard figured it was also the stairs. He was getting too old for stairs. But he was a man on a mission, and so he could stand to climb a few stairs. Luckily, he knew it would be cooler in Dr. Weir's office. He was right. John happily closed the door and then dumped his burden on her table.  
  
She stared at it, then looked up at him. "The hell is that?"  
  
"A rug?" Major John Sheppard put on his best innocent face.  
  
Dr. Elizabeth Weir raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "A rug."  
  
"Yup. A gen-u-Ine Wraithskin Rug. Bought from the locals of A3X-438."  
  
"And what are we planning to do with this rug?"  
  
"I dunno. Thought it might look good in the gateroom. Cushiony, for when we drag someone through, or dive through, or fall through." He suggested.  
  
"Right." She was obviously fighting back a giggle.  
  
He could tell by the way the corners of her eyes were crinkling, and the way her teeth had caught the edge of her lower lip. Any second now, Lizzie Weir was going to laugh her ass off. If he prodded her just right. "Or we could throw a ball. Dance the samba on the graves of our enemies."  
  
A giggle escaped her, and her eyes widened as she clamped a hand over her mouth.  
  
"Better yet, we teach the Athosians to dance, and we can have a headbanger's ball. Heavy metal music can't be that hard to reproduce."  
  
"Major." She'd regained control, her lips pressed firmly together.  
  
"Doctor."  
  
"There will be no dancing in the gateroom."  
  
"Not even late at night when you can't sleep?"  
  
"Not even then."  
  
He tried a careful pout. "But I like dancing, Lizzie."  
  
Her glare nailed him. "Don't call me that."  
  
"Or what?"  
  
"Or I'll let Ford name the next thing."  
  
Which was almost enough of a threat. That man had no sense of aesthetics or naming style. "Awww, but," he bargained.  
  
"No."  
  
"Liz--"  
  
"John."  
  
Oooh. John. She only called him John when she was pissed. And in that "I know where you live and I don't have a problem accidentally flooding it" tone of voice, too. "Did I mention I still have a stash of chocolate, Doctor?"  
  
"Chocolate?" Her eyebrow went up again. "Major, are you trying to bribe me?"  
  
"With only the best of intentions... Lizzie."  
  
Again, the glare resurfaced.  
  
"Okay, okay. Fine. Doctor."  
  
"You could call me Elizabeth."  
  
"Too long. By the time I yelled 'Elizabeth look out!' you'd be dead."  
  
"Liz, then."  
  
"Too short."  
  
"You're not calling me Lizzie."  
  
"But it suits you."  
  
"Major, I'm beginning to think cleaning the latrines with toothbrushes suits you."  
  
"Oh, wouldja look at the time." He mimed glancing at his watch. "It's time for Baywatch."  
  
"Baywatch?"  
  
"Yeah. Some of the staff go sunbathing about now."  
  
"Aaand, some of you like to watch?"  
  
"Yup." He winked.  
  
Dr. Weir's eyes rolled. "12. You're all 12. That's all there is to it."  
  
"What, you've never wanted to see McKay without his shirt on?"  
  
"No. Never."  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"No comment."  
  
"Oh-ho! So, you have thought about me without my shirt on."  
  
"I didn't say that." Her lips were twitching, though. She was gonna laugh at him again.  
  
"You didn't not say it, either."  
  
"Major, I thought you were about to go wander off and watch pasty white people try to tan?"  
  
"No, no, this is much more fascinating." He leaned against the wall, and eyed her with interest. "So, have you thought about me completely naked?"  
  
She blinked. Once. And then she laughed, the sound filling the office with an infectious sound that made him grin. Hah. He knew he could do this. Finally, she stopped, wiping a hand across her eyes. "Dear God, Major, the things that come out of your mouth."  
  
"Oh baby, oh baby?" He suggested.  
  
Weir snorted. "Go away."  
  
"Aw, but I was just gettin' started."  
  
She waved a hand at the... rug. "I have matters to deal with, Major. And I'm sure you've got tan lines to check out."  
  
Letting out a large sigh, he straightened. "Hey, I know when I'm not wanted."  
  
He was almost out the door when her voice called, the tone smug. "Did I say that, Major?" He almost stopped. Almost turned and called her on it. But sunlight beckoned. And Lieutenant Jankowski in her teeny tiny green bikini. On a redheaded woman, it was overkill. So he let the door slide closed behind him and started on his way.  
  
Besides, he was sure to think of something else to make her laugh tomorrow.  
  
-finis- 


End file.
